


Arm Yourself

by musicmillennia



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: A little angst, Blood and Injury, Dark Humor, Established Relationship, Injury, Kissing, M/M, because apparently these guys keep meeting up like this in my fics, not as graphic as the summary seems, these dudes bicker like an old married couple ffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 13:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15049958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: “McCullum! Good. I need you to hold my arm while I sew it back on.”





	Arm Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hippocratic Oath/No Kill Jonathan Reid and Spared McCullum

Sometimes, you have to resign yourself to loving someone. You just know that, no matter what you do, that person will always lurk at the edges of your awareness and you can’t help looking at them.

“McCullum! Good. I need you to hold my arm while I sew it back on.”

Or maybe Geoffrey McCullum’s just an idiot.

Jonathan nods to the gaping flesh under his shoulder, panting heavily. “It’s not fully torn, but it’s close. My healing is working—” indeed, McCullum can see tendrils of flesh reaching towards each other, “—but my blood supply is low. I’d rather be able to get back to the hospital relatively coherent than waste it.”

Sheathing his sword, McCullum kneels and takes Jonathan’s elbow. “What the hell did you get yourself into?”

Jonathan retrieves a needle and stitch thread from his pocket. “It’s hardly _my_ fault you armed one of your enforcers with a shotgun.”

McCullum’s eyes narrow. “Did y’kill him?”

Jonathan glares at him.

“It’s a fair question, doctor. You said yourself that your supply is low.”

“It was also low _before_ the fight. Two years we’ve known each other Geoffrey! Who do you think I am?”

McCullum shrugs. “I think you’re a rare kind with good intentions, but you’re bound to slip one day.”

Jonathan glares at him again.

McCullum scoffs. “Hand me that. You’re useless.”

Jonathan grunts loudly as his arm’s unceremoniously dropped. The needle and thread are snatched from his hand while he clutches his elbow.

“You will never let that go, will you?” he hisses.

Slipping the thread through the needle, McCullum replies, “I do know you, Jon. Your first instinct, however impossible, is to heal a bloody wound instead of drainin’ it. Don’t mean you don’t have other instincts. I’m just bein’ realistic.”

Jonathan falls silent, save for more sharp breaths. McCullum’s meticulous as always, carefully threading through the skin, especially when going into spots he can barely see. The Whitechapel alley is quiet too, for once.

“How’d you get my boys off your back?”

“I ran.”

“…and they let you be?”

“Might I suggest more vigorous training? Or perhaps you could tell them I’m not a threat.”

“We’ll be arguin’ in circles again, Dr. Reid.”

Jonathan had been right in that the stitches should help his healing along. It’s less work for his healing—not much, but enough to hopefully harbor him to Pembroke, give or take a couple rats.

They stand, Jonathan a tad slower.

“What would you do?”

McCullum raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Jonathan’s looking at the opposite wall. “If I slipped.”

“…if you did, you’d probably go right to my boys and let ‘em shoot.” There’s most likely no _if_ about it, but McCullum indulges him—or maybe both of them. “Ever think o’ Skals?”

Jonathan hums thoughtfully. “There _are_ plenty of rogues.”

“Rogues? Y’make it sound like there’re _civilized_ beasts.”

“Well,” Jonathan says, a little too loudly, “Thank you for your assistance, Geoffrey.”

“ _Jon_ —”

“I’ll keep your idea in mind. But if you don’t have any patrolling to do, I could use an escort back to the hospital.”

No he doesn’t. Jonathan’s of ancient blood. Could take down five Skals even in his state.

McCullum jerks his chin over his shoulder. “This way, y’bloody idiot.”

“Puns, Geoffrey? _Really_?”

“I didn’t make one, but it shows somethin’ about _your_ sense o’ humor.”

Jonathan kisses him, good hand cupping the back of his head. Cold as the grave, he is, making the misty London night worse, with fangs accidentally grazing with every move. McCullum pulls him closer anyway, gripping his collar with white knuckles.

McCullum’s heart rate spikes. Jonathan’s grip spasms. He makes frustrated noise when McCullum nips at his bottom lip, but knows it’s not an invitation, just a vampire hunter being a shit. He refuses to give in because that’s just who he is.

(Geoffrey McCullum has resigned himself to love.)

They part quietly, Jonathan pulling back so their breath doesn’t mingle. His eyes are getting bruised.

“If I slip,” he whispers, “Kill me.”

It hurts. Of course it fucking does. But for once, McCullum has faith in a monster. It might be blind and stupid, but he’s found that Jonathan Reid is worth it.

He nods once. Jonathan’s shoulders slump—in sadness or relief, he can’t tell—with a long sigh. He takes McCullum’s hand as tightly as he dares and kisses the knuckles.

“Come on, y’sap,” McCullum murmurs, “Let’s go find you some rats.”

Jonathan smiles, just a little. “Sounds disgusting. Lead the way.”


End file.
